Perfect
by Daniella Jackson
Summary: He looked at him. His son was perfect. ... He'd created him and he was his property, his toy, his slave, his slut. Darkfic DracoLucius
1. Perfect

He looked at him. His son was perfect. Flawless, creamy, pale skin, hairless all over his young, lithe but still muscular body only he was allowed to touch; the long, silky, shiny straight white blonde hair which brushed with its tips the slim waist; the flat, hard-as-a-rock stomach. The great, almond-shaped eyes with their long, thick lashes and their silver iris; what he loved the most because of the way they fulled up with tears each time. Perfect he was, as he lay naked before him, only wearing that black leather collar that marked him as his for whatever he pleased to do with him. He'd created him and he was his property, his toy, his slave, his slut.

He awakened him and used him once again. He took advantage of him whole. Lips, teeth, tongue first; then his throat, his voice too as he made him beg endlessly for mercy, and then beg again for Lucius' favourite thing. Tell him he liked what he was doing for him. Then using his hands, his spread legs, and his hole. He used his chest and back as covering them with lovebites made without love. Then he left and let him sleep.

He often wondered how much could he spoil that perfection, because it sometimes tired him. Making every inch of the lovely pale skin blue hadn't helped; bruises always healed. Then he came up with an idea.

- Draco! -he screamed, and his son came creeping on his knees, loosened hair covering his back and brushing the floor with its tips. Then again, so boring perfect.

He held an object in his hand. A little dagger made of silver. So beautiful, and even more as he slid it over his son's right shoulder. When no skin was left, he went down his arm. Draco yelled in pain as his father destroyed the once flawless skin slowly, and then changed arm and started it all over again, only to do the same thing with his tighs and legs. Then he was chained and whipped until no skin was left on his chest, stomach, back and arse. When he was done he held the siver dagger once again and marked the kid's cheeks.

These imperfections would take a longer time to heal.

**Author's note: yup, I know it's sad and dark and disturbing, but hey, that's me sometimes. And yup, I know that Draco didn't have hair long to his waist, but the beautifulness ofthe laying image appeared like that im my head. And no, I ain't sying that this attitude is beautiful. plz R&R**


	2. Mine

**_Author's note: Well, as you indicated I had to treat the slave/bondage stuff in more detail and depth, here you are. Same beggining from "he looked at him..." to "...slut" everything else rewritten. Enjoy, my little perverts!_**

PLOT 2: "Mine"

He looked at him. His son was perfect. Flawless, creamy, pale skin, hairless all over his young, lithe but still muscular body only he was allowed to touch; the long, silky, shiny straight white blonde hair which brushed with its tips the thin waist; the flat, hard as a rock stomach. The great, almond-shaped eyes with their long, thick lashes and their silver iris; what he loved the most because of the way they filled up with tears each time. Perfect he was, as he lay naked before him, only wearing that black leather collar that marked him as his for whatever he pleased to do with him. He'd created him and he was his property, his toy, his slave, his slut.

But still, it just didn't show sometimes. He wanted Draco to be completely his, not to have a mind or a personality of his own apart from his desires. He'd thought he'd have Draco's self-conscience beaten out of him, but the boy had proved to be stronger than that. What to do, then, to make sure he would always remember he was nothing but a property that could be thrown away if he grew tired of his toy?

And then he came up with the solution. Yes, _that_ would be perfect. Each time Draco looked in the mirror, he would remember. He was his, fully his, and nothing else. He didn't even belong to himself. This would finally rip his soul out of him, and leave nothing but the automat Lucius wanted his son to be, a perfect doll to play with.

Draco awakened to be tied, wrists and ankles, to the bedpost. Another whipping session, perhaps? Or maybe his father just wanted to play bondage –being that soft, in his uses…

Then he smelt the smoke, the burning wood and the ashes, and he saw his father heating up something. Something made of iron, heated until it was red-hot. A mark, as the ones used to distinct cows. He frowned.

Lucius stared at his son. His chest… no, too lovely –and he liked it like that, smooth, flawless and childish, with its gleaming paleness. He wouldn't have stained such perfection. So he chose his shoulder.

Draco couldn't move, not even shake despite his terror, so tightly tied he was. It hurt when the red-hot metal touched his skin; it hurt more than anything else in his life, and he had been badly wounded. But, however, it wasn't the pain what made him faint.

It was the smell of burnt flesh.


End file.
